


Vehemence

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dom/sub, Dominance, Established Relationship, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Rough Sex, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-22 00:49:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3708983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas takes out his anger at and on the man he loves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vehemence

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Legolas holding his father down and fucking him” prompt on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/14338.html?thread=25549314#t25549314).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The push inside is a harsh one, and if Thranduil weren’t an elf, he’d tear. Every time Legolas does this, he expects to draw blood, but instead it’s just sweat and spit he comes away with. He never slides more than halfway out because he doesn’t want to give any leverage. He keeps his weight pinning his father down, keeps Thranduil’s wrists held firm against the floor, keeps their legs intertwined. His hips roll into Thranduil’s with greedy, staccato thrusts, merciless and hard. Each time he slams Thranduil into the floor, he expects a grunt or a hiss of pain, but hitched breath is all he ever gets. Thranduil takes the abuse in relative silence, relinquishing no satisfaction. 

Legolas feels it anyway. It’s so _satisfying_ to sink his length into his father’s body, to feel the tight walls squeeze at him, clench around the intrusion, boil him in heat and try to suck him deeper. Thranduil’s body betrays his want when his mouth won’t. Thranduil’s chest is to the floor, his face turned to its side. As Legolas fucks his father _hard_ , he growls into Thranduil’s ear, “Is this what you want of me, _Ada_?”

Thranduil, of course, says nothing. His bow lips part, his face awash in pleasure. He’s _beautiful_ , always is, but especially so when his control’s ebbed away, and his features melt in their desire. His dark eyebrows knit slightly together, blue eyes clouded and half-lidded. Legolas buries into the curtain of white-gold hair to inhale the familiar musk. His father’s silver robes are pushed aside just enough for Legolas to slip through, though his own armour’s still heavy across his shoulders: high from the hunt. The adrenaline is clamouring in his ears. 

“You don’t want me to have anyone else,” Legolas snarls, meaning to be collected but coming out _fierce_ , his hips all the more relentless. Even still and dominated, Thranduil sets his blood to boil. “You don’t want me to leave, you don’t want me to look; is this what you _do_ want? A _caged animal?_ ” He punctuates his words with his hips. His father’s wrists tense in his grasp but don’t strain to leave. 

Legolas turns his head to lave his tongue down the back of his father’s ear. The firelight is to the other side, lit in the hearth. They have privacy in the king’s chambers, though sometimes Legolas wishes the whole kingdom could see Thranduil kneel. As he grazes his teeth along the pointed shell, he hisses, “You wish to turn me into a feral beast?” And nothing else. He doesn’t get the attention that a loving son should, doesn’t get the freedom to let his heart lighten. There’s still a _pleasure_ in this, in holding control, power. But he still enjoys the faint sliver of worry that flickers through Thranduil’s eyes, just before another thrust sends him back to lust. For that moment, Legolas pauses, enraptured with how horribly _gorgeous_ Thranduil is—Legolas will never find another creature so handsome. But he’s rough all the same, and when he sinks his teeth into Thranduil’s ear, it’s cruel and unforgiving. 

Thranduil betrays a small, strangled moan. Legolas stops just short of drawing blood, and he releases one wrist so he can run his fingers along his father’s arm, up into the curtain of pale hair. Then he fists in it and tugs, jerking Thranduil’s head back, forcing his pretty throat to arch. Legolas’ face turns to brush along Thranduil’s. He loses himself again and barely recovers to dig his teeth through Thranduil’s cheek. 

His other hand leaves Thranduil’s other wrist, and Legolas wraps both his arms around his father’s waist, pulling him up from the floor, crushing them tighter together. Legolas doesn’t pull out anymore, merely grinds his cock into his father’s ass. There’s a solace in that simple act: physical relief. And then there’s their _connection_ , true and deep and undeniable. He’ll probably never be able to love anyone as much as he loves Thranduil. 

And he’s angry with himself for it. He bemoans his father’s wish for him to stay, but he doesn’t _want_ to go, doesn’t ever want to leave the safety of the Greenwood, and more importantly, Thranduil’s arms. He pours that contradiction into his hips and takes it out on Thranduil’s body. In a way, he’s proving his strength to his father. Proving that he’s worthy of a king. 

He could leave, if he wanted to. But then he would leave _this_ , and this is so disgustingly _perfect_. He shudders near his end. The heat pools in him, his speed increasing, and he digs his fingers into his father’s waist and his face into his father’s jaw, while Thranduil lies still on the floor, crushed under Legolas’ weight and fury. 

When Legolas comes, he cries out. He never means to; he wants to be silent, stoic, like the man who made him. But it’s too _much_ , and the passion boils over, while he spills himself inside his father, making needy little thrusts to pump it out. 

When he’s filled his father with seed, Legolas collapses atop him. Legolas doesn’t pull out and doesn’t roll away. He lets his limp, heavy form hold Thranduil to the worn rug, and he pants heavily over Thranduil’s shoulder. His arms don’t let go. 

He’s half surprised that Thranduil doesn’t roll him right over and punish him for his insolence. He went too far this time. He was rash and brutal, and he isn’t young enough to justify it. 

But Thranduil is quiet for those first few minutes, letting Legolas sweat it off. He doesn’t know if Thranduil is still hard or not, but he stubbornly resists checking. If he touches his father’s cock and finds it aroused, his own interest will return, and he won’t have the energy to be cruel again. And if they make love now, it’ll spoil the point.

He kisses the back of Thranduil’s head, more tenderly than he means to, and lies still. 

It’s several minutes before Thranduil lifts up. It forces Legolas to pull out, and then to slide off, landing on the floor, sprawled out and satiated. 

Thranduil looks down at him. The smile on Thranduil’s lips is a small, thin one, but the depth of _love_ behind it is staggering, and Legolas has to bite his tongue to keep from apologizing. Eventually, Thranduil bends to kiss Legolas’ forehead. 

When he pulls back again, he drawls, “Do you feel better?”

Legolas takes a leaf out of his father’s book and doesn’t answer. It isn’t so simple, never is, and the patronizing tone makes him more frustrated than ever. 

Be he allows Thranduil to kiss his lips nonetheless, and he leans into it. He wraps a lazy arm around his father’s shoulders, and then he’s being drawn up into his father’s grasp. 

He’s carried to the bed, lesson never learned.


End file.
